


By Any Other Name

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Silly, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1883304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally wasn't the first one on the scene. Written for JWP #1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Rather silly (and smelly). And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.

  
JWP #1: A picture prompt of a stick figure slipping on a patch of ice or fluid.

Sally wasn’t surprised to see a half-dozen official cars scattered on the two nearest streets when she arrived. She’d known she wasn’t going to be first to the scene; she’d been too far away, for one, and she knew others would make a point of racing there. She’d almost dared to hope that by the time she arrived, the bulk of the difficult work would be done already.

And by difficult, she didn’t mean interviewing witnesses, or interrogating suspects, or canvassing the scene, or even the epic amounts of paperwork this raid would generate. She could deal with all of that, and was better at most of it than some. No, she’d take any and all of that over…

A tall figure caught her eye, pacing near one of the aid cars, dark coat swaying with his movement. Sally resisted the urge to swear. Yeah, she’d rather deal with all the paperwork in the world than _him_. But he, too, was part of the job, and Sally didn’t shirk on any part of her work, no matter how little she liked it. And it was marginally easier these days, what with John Watson around –

\- Wait.

She didn’t see Watson, just him. Near an aid car.

Sally double-timed it towards that car, worry hastening her steps. She liked John Watson. Questionable taste in flatmates aside, he was a decent man. The last thing she wanted (though it was something she was certain would happen) was for him to get seriously hurt while following Sherlock Holmes around.

Six feet from the open end of the aid car, a powerful smell hit her nose, strong enough to stop her in her tracks. “Cor!” she coughed, near gagging at the overwhelming scent. She hastily clapped one hand to her nose, pinching her nostrils shut before venturing closer. “Who died?”

Holmes spun around, pale eyes focusing on her face. “Interesting that you associate the scent of roses with death, Sally.”

“That’s not just roses,” she snapped back. “It’s like an entire stadium full of them, only they’ve gone off somehow. Like a week old.”

If anything, Holmes’ eyes grew more intent. “Very interesting.”

“It’s something called attar of roses, apparently.” The voice came from the back of the aid car, and Sally saw John sitting on the edge while a neoprene-gloved attendant secured a bandage around his right ankle. The attendant wore a mask, and his eyes watered profusely. John didn’t look much better. He pulled a face. “And it’s not just pungent, but slippery as all hell. There’s a spill of it inside. Do yourself a favor and don’t walk in it.”

“You were running when you fell,” Holmes pointed out. “Not walking.”

“Running or walking, you could still take a nasty fall.”

“Hurts, too, if you get it on your skin. You’ll want to be extra careful.” Sally didn’t see Lestrade until he spoke. The DI was well inside the bay, looking as unhappy as John as another aid worker carefully wiped both of his reddened, angry-looking hands with some kind of ointment. She too wore gloves and a mask. “I just lent John a steadying hand, and the residue from his clothes was enough to make my hands break out in a rash.”

“Wait.” Sally scowled, trying to hide how her eyes were starting to water. “The call reported a smuggling operation.”

“It was. They’ve been smuggling rose oil. Chemically, it’s fascinating; beta-damascenone, beta-damascone, beta-ionone, and rose oxide, as well as citronellol, geraniol, nerol, linalool, phenyl ethyl alcohol, benzaldehyde, benzyl alcohol…”

She couldn’t help herself; Sally pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to stave off the headache she could feel building as well as shield herself from the stench. “Right, thanks, very interesting I’m sure. But _why_ would anyone smuggle this stuff?”

Holmes gave her one of his disdainful looks, as if she was somehow mentally deficient. “Pure rose oil is a crucial ingredient in high-end perfume and beauty products, and demands an extremely high price, particularly if it is Bulgarian, as this is.”

“How high a price?”

He shoved both hands in his pockets and shrugged. “The bottle Kay threw at John trying to deter him probably contained 100 millilitres of oil at most, perhaps less. Depending on the quality and the market, that amount would probably fetch between £600 and £700.”

“What?” Lestrade barked before Sally could find her voice. “That’s absurd!”

“That’s what made it so profitable to smuggle,” Holmes corrected. “Extremely high value for very little weight or volume, and currently in scarce supply due to the damage poor weather did to this year’s rose crop. I’ve no doubt the smugglers hoped the pungent scent would also throw off drug-sniffing dogs from finding their other goods, too, although that’s far less likely.”

“Other goods?” Sally repeated, then shook her head. “Never mind. I expect we’ll find them, even if we have to tear this place apart.”

“Hm,” was all Holmes said in reply, most of his attention now fixed on John, who shifted, clearly intending to stand despite his swollen ankle. Sally was surprised that the attendant neither advised him to stay seated, nor attempted to help him stand. When John staggered, it was Holmes who was there, steadying him with one arm. “Should you be attempting to walk on that?” he asked.

“It’s just a mild sprain.” John’s words were infused with all the confidence of an experienced doctor. “Hurts, but the best cure is ice and elevation, both of which I can do just as well at home. And I _desperately_ want a shower.”

“You do realize that no matter how much you scrub, you’ll still smell like roses for the better part of a week.” It was hard for Sally to tell whether Holmes was being sarcastic or merely truthful in that annoying way he had. He’d clearly dismissed the rest of them as unimportant. All his attention remained focused on John and keeping his progress steady as they walked away, towards the barricades and the traffic beyond.

“Wonderful,” John sighed. “Then I hope for your sake – and Mrs Hudson’s – that you don’t mind if the flat smells like flowers for a while.”

Sally would have sworn she saw a small smile. “I like roses.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 1, 2014


End file.
